"You look so tired, Snowdrop," says Sempaly, sympathetically, "will you not rest a little?" With that he points to a bench in a niche of thick elder-bushes.
"Yes, I am tired," says Elsa, dully, and sits down.
"Tired after a two-hour drive and a little stroll through the park, Snowdrop," remarks Scirocco, anxiously. "I do not recognize you any more. You used to endure so much. Do you know that your health makes me anxious?"
"Nonsense! My health interests you about as much as that of the Emperor of Brazil. If you receive notice of my death some day you will shrug your shoulders and sigh sympathetically, 'Poor Garzin!'"
"You are intolerable, Snowdrop," says Scirocco, laughing. "Besides, the wind is rising and you are beginning to shiver. Let us go to the house."
"No, I like it here," she cries with a pretty childishness. "I should like to see the sun set from here, and am curious as to whether the Flora there"--pointing to a statue--"will become flushed pink. Prove your friendship and get me a wrap."
He goes away, but remains longer than the nearness of the castle seems to justify. Elsa does not notice his long absence. She prefers to be alone in this spot. The bench reminds her of old times, and is therefore dear to her. Whether the Flora becomes pink or not is perfectly indifferent to her--she does not look outward, she gazes inward. She thinks of the day when she sat there with Erwin, her betrothed. (Count Dey was still alive then.) She remembers--oh, something foolish--the little beetle which had fallen in her hair and which Erwin had brushed away with light hand; his caressing touch; how he looked lovingly at the beetle because it had touched his love's hair; how, instead of throwing the insect away, he had carried it with him when they left the bench, and had placed it carefully in the heart of the most beautiful rose which they passed.
How he loved her then! How passionately and at the same time how tenderly! "Ah! those were such lovely times," she sighs with the old song.
The voices of the lawn-tennis players are still heard. How can they play in such a gale? Suddenly she hears her name spoken near by.
"How this poor Mrs. Garzin has gone off!" cries the Klette's bass voice. "I scarcely recognized her."